


Starting with something

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: In the aftermath of a mission gone horribly wrong, Steve's fighting for happiness.





	Starting with something

**Author's Note:**

> This fic stands alone, but I recommend reading You can have my everything first. 
> 
> This particular piece was written for a Tumblr prompt (find me @Builder051).

Steve’d hoped that his bad mood would lift when he got home.  But now he’s parked his bike in the garage, kicked off his shoes, and unloaded his work bag, but he still can’t pull his mind away from missions gone badly and past social missteps and assorted other failures that are long gone, but still make his ears burn with shame.

 

“Hey,” Bucky calls from the kitchen.  Steve can hear the flicker of the gas stove and the hiss of something sautéing in oil.

 

Back before the war, it was always Steve in the kitchen and Bucky sauntering in, the breadwinner home from work with the expectation of food and affection.  But everything’s different now.  They’ve settled into the new routine of Steve taking on Bucky’s old role, and vice versa.

 

Except today it’s challenging to accept.  Chicken and pineapple sizzle in a frying pan while rice cooks on the back burner.  Bucky looks serene and almost happy as he cooks.  Anything good for Bucky is good for him, but today Steve feels like it’s all wrong. 

 

“Hey,” Bucky says again, lifting his spatula and smiling at Steve in the kitchen doorway.  “You hungry?”

 

“Um.  Yeah,” Steve lies.  His stomach is in knots.  Why is Bucky so content to cater to him like the doting wife to Steve’s provider husband?  He doesn’t deserve it.  He can’t begin to deserve it.

 

“It’s a new recipe I got from the Food Network,” Bucky explains.  “Pineapple fried rice with chicken.  It’s kind of weird because it has chicken and eggs in it.”  He shakes his head at the perceived absurdity of it. “But I think it’s turning out well.”  He uses a knife to scrape a neat pile of green onions into the pan.

 

“Yeah, that’s good…”  Steve’s torn.  He can barely stand to be in the same room as the scent of delicious home cooking, the glow of the smile on Bucky’s lips.  He feels like the dark cloud around him is going to spread and extinguish it at any moment.  “I’ll be right back; I’m just gonna get changed.”

 

Upstairs, Steve swaps his khakis for sweats and pulls on a clean t-shirt.  He splashes water on his face and spends seven or eight minutes brushing his teeth, trying desperately to polish himself up in order to be good company. 

 

He should run back down to the kitchen.  Wrap his arms around Bucky from behind, kiss his neck, caress his metal shoulder.  Compliment his cooking skills.  But Steve has enough trouble pulling the toothbrush out of his mouth, the chemical mint flavor bitingly cold on the insides of his cheeks.  He’s freezing.  He feels overly exposed. 

 

Steve pulls on wool socks and the warmest sweater he can find.  It’s one he bought for Bucky after he came off the ice, and Steve almost takes it off, but he stop himself because he really does feel better with it on.  He sits on the edge of the bed and forces a few deep breaths.  Everything’s really alright.  Bucky’s doing well.  The bad events that seem to follow Steve are at least months, if not years and decades into the past.  He just wills himself to get on the same page.

 

There’s a knock on the door.  Steve quickly glances at the clock and realizes he’s been waffling around for over half an hour.  The doorknob clicks, and Bucky’s face appears with a sliver of light from the hallway. “You ok?” he asks.

 

“Yeah.”  Steve nods.  He drops his forehead into his palms, as much to avoid eye contact as to address the beginnings of a brewing headache. 

 

“Food’s ready, if you want to eat.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“You’re not feeling great,” Bucky whispers.  The mattress sinks down a couple inches as he perches at Steve’s side, his metal arm pressed against Steve’s sweater-clad one.

 

Steve shakes his head in a weak attempt to disagree.  Nothing’s actually wrong.  Not a single thing’s happened today or this week or this month that should make him sense everything in such an off manner.

 

“It’s ok,” Bucky says.  “You don’t have to be good with everything all the time.”

 

“I’m fine,” Steve murmurs.  “There’s nothing wrong.  I mean, nothing happened.”

 

“Something doesn’t have to happen,” Bucky says.  “It’s ok to just feel bad, you know?”

 

Bucky, who not so long ago was skittish and mute, is now a sage of wisdom, and Steve’s rock of stability is eroding to sand before his eyes. 

 

“Come eat.  I bet your blood sugar’s low.”  Bucky stands and takes Steve’s hands in his, one warm and one freezing.

 

“Yeah.  Ok.”

 

Bucky practically dances him downstairs and heaps a pile of steaming rice onto a plate.  “You want chopsticks?”

 

Steve doubts he’ll get much down anyway, so he agrees. 

 

The food is delicious, but guilt spoils it slightly as Steve can’t stop silently thinking himself in circles.  He should say something.  Like that Stark is planning a Halloween party.  Or even just thank you for dinner.

 

Steve follows Bucky into the kitchen and mechanically starts doing the dishes while Bucky sees to the leftovers. 

 

“You don’t have to,” Bucky starts. 

 

“It’s fine.  I want to,” Steve says.  The errant thought that a touch of manual labor will pay penance on his soul dominates his mind.  He imagines his weaker, younger self doing the same thing.  The feminine, weakling chores that are meant for him, and never for Bucky.

 

Once the kitchen is clean, Bucky asks him what he wants to do.

 

“I’m just gonna go upstairs,” Steve sighs.

 

“You want company?”

 

“Sure.”  He’s not in the mood to mess around, though.  “But not, you know.”

 

Of course Bucky knows.  Steve hasn’t been in the mood for a couple months now.  Why would anything change now?  He’ll always be the pathetic one…

 

Between his headache and Bucky’s body heat, Steve’s happy to shut his eyes and pull a curtain on today. He breathes in measured gusts of Bucky’s soap and reminds himself that their partnership is just that. They’re equals.  Strength and vulnerability present as they come.  Bucky doesn’t care if Steve shows a weakness once in a while.  God knows Steve doesn’t mind it when things are the other way around. 

 

Sleep comes easily, and leaves easily also.  They’ve turned in so early that it’s not even midnight when dark and better un-remembered dreams launch a campaign on Steve’s mind.  Cold fingers of terror tear at his limbs, and nausea immediately rises as soon as he snaps open his eyes.

 

Icy sweat drips down the small of his back as Steve lunges to his feet and makes for the bathroom.  He retches up nothing a few times, then begins to feel grains of rice clinging to the inside of his throat. 

 

“Steve?”  Bucky’s sleepy sounding and imprecise with his movements as he kneels at Steve’s shoulder.

 

“I’m alright,” Steve chokes out.  He retches hard enough to jar tears from the corners of his eyes. 

 

“Yeah, you are,” Bucky affirms in a voice that’s half sarcasm and half truth.  He rubs one hand up and down Steve’s back and rests his chin on his quivering shoulder.  “Whatever you’re feeling is ok.”

 

Steve vomits again, then forcibly regains control of his body.  He swipes his hand across his lips, and the sleeve of the sweater he’s still wearing scratches against his cheek.  He sits back on his heels, breathing heavily.  “Yeah.  Ok,” he exhales, acutely aware of the labored rise and fall of his chest and the vertigo that still plays around his forehead and ears.

 

“Come here,” Bucky murmurs.  He guides Steve sideways so his head gently slides to Bucky’s lap.  He cards Steve’s hair with the soft fingers of his right hand and pats Steve’s shoulder with his left.  “You don’t have to feel good, alright?” 

 

Steve breathes slowly in and out, drinking in the touch as he grounds himself in time and space.

 

“I’m here no matter what.  Just remember that,” Bucky whispers.

 

And Steve knows it’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you guys want more of this angsty stuff? Or am I the only one who likes it?


End file.
